


destroy me

by graffitismoak



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, also the ending is cheesy af bc i didn't know how to end it, but sort of 5.18 spec??, i know this isn't gonna happen bc the writers aren't that nice, this isn't very good but it's the best i could do at 1 am, with no sleep and little motivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 13:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10413636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graffitismoak/pseuds/graffitismoak
Summary: Basically missing scene from 5.17, I guess? It could also be considered spec for 5.18.





	

**Author's Note:**

> it's not great, because usually i like to go over my work, but i wanted to get it out there The Day Of™. basically just felicity smoak taking care of oliver queen after he was severely traumatized by a sociopath. because my heart needs that. and so does oliver.

"Oliver, oh my god," Felicity stands and rushes to the edge of the stairs, but stops before she flings herself into his arms.

Her eyes zero in on his chest, bile rising in her throat when she sees the Bratva tattoo that she'd kissed and caressed on so many nights burned completely off of his chest. 

Her head feels like it's filled with cotton as she watches him pull off his jacket and wince up the steps to the platform, but she doesn't hear anything he says until a look of disbelief crosses John's features.

"I'm shutting everything down."

As Oliver stands in front of them, weary and broken, all that Felicity can manage to do is repeat what he said in her mind.

Every part of her revolts at the thought of disbanding the team. She tries to reason with the words, knows that he's hurting and that maybe he doesn't mean them. He'll come to his senses and realize that he needs this; needs _them_. 

Except, even as she says the words in her head, every other part of her knows that this is destroying him. It has been since he came back from the island. She thinks back to the fleeting look of terror on his face when Thea and Laurel showed up at their home in Ivytown; the one he masked so eloquently that she wouldn't have even noticed had she not spent eons looking into his eyes. The look that told her, in reflection, that the mere thought of putting on that hood again was unfathomable. That it couldn't touch this part of him, the part that he'd let heal, and she curses them in a million ways for the millionth time since she'd learned to walk again for knocking on that door. Except she knows that wasn't what made him lie and that wasn't what broke him—them—either, but blaming the world is easier than blaming herself, and it's certainly easier than blaming him. 

And now all that she can think is that she'd made him come back. She knows it isn't her fault, but she also knows that he did it, all of it, for her happiness. That he'd lay out every single part of himself and destroy them all with his bare hands if it let him see her smile, if even for a second. 

He moves forward then, brushing passed her and Diggle, and she lifts an arm, not quite touching his bicep. 

"I'll patch you up," she spoke in a ragged whisper, breaking the eerie silence. 

He turns to her, but doesn't quite make eye contact, shaking his head, "I don't need your help, Felicity." 

"Oliver–"

" _I don't need you!_ " His shout echoes through the bunker, as all three members of the team take a step back.

Breathing hard, wheezing through tortured lungs, he shakes his head, drags a hand through his hair, still not making eye contact. He looks terrified, as if the person who'd just yelled at her wasn't even him.

He turns to walk away, his movements jerky, his body ill-accustomed to motion after being chained up for 6 days.

Felicity stands in shock, and Diggle steps towards her.

"Felicit–"

"I'm okay, John," she tries to smile, but she can barely manage a grimace, "I just– I'm gonna go wait for him."

Curtis jumps in, holding out his arm before she gets a chance to move, "Felicity, he's not stable, you shouldn't be with him alone."

" _Excuse_ me? I'm sorry,” she’s not, “but do you really think that Oliver would hurt me? If anyone around here knows how to deal with him when he's in the midst of a breakdown it's me.” As Felicity finishes, Curtis gives her a guilty look, but she doesn't give him a chance to apologize before she's walking off to Oliver's sleeping quarters.

She hears the shower running as she sits down on the cot, picking at the loose strings. A spark of pain hits her at the thought of him sleeping here alone instead of in their bed, where he belongs, and it's magnified at the thought of _this_ Oliver, all crushed spirit and broken body, laying here alone tonight. 

Her head snaps up as the shower turns off and Oliver's form blocks the little light coming from the bathroom. He's only wearing a towel, barely even hanging onto his hips, and tears clog her throat when she sees all the wounds littering his chest, healed and open, old and new. 

Guilt swamps his features when he notices her sitting in front of him. 

She stands and hovers near the end of the bed while he sits down in the exact spot she vacated. 

"You're gonna let me patch you up now," she speaks, and he looks at her with exasperation, "and if you don't, I'm gonna wait until you pass out from exhaustion, and then we can risk you hurting me when you inevitably have a nightmare." 

" _Felicity_ ," he begs, and she almost feels bad baiting him with the thought of hurting her, until her eyes catch sight of the mangled flesh on his chest, and her resolve hardens. 

"The others are gone. I'll let you get dressed," she speaks in a soft tone, before she turns away. 

"Felicity, I don't want your help," he says, louder this time, voice still shaking. The change in words isn't lost on her. 

Frustration coursing through her, she turns and walks over to him, stepping between his legs, and grabbing his face between her hands. His eyes flutter for a second before focusing on her face. 

Anxiety crosses his features as he realizes how close she is, and she knows it scares him to be close to people when he's like this, but she also knows that when she holds him long enough he melts into her, until her tiny body is curled around his giant one, and he's protected from every angle. 

__So, she steps minutely closer, until his face is almost touching her stomach, and his hands gravitate to the backs of her legs, just whispers of a touch, and says, "Oliver," she takes a small breath in, maintaining eye contact, "I am not going to let him destroy you." Her whisper echoes off of the dank, barren walls surrounding them and permeates in the silence._ _

__He stares at her for a second, before his entire body collapses and his face presses into her chest, his hands bringing her even closer, flush against his torso._ _

__She knows the fabric of her dress must be aggravating his wounds, but she also knows that having her here, pressed against him, is healing so many more._ _

__He sobs against her, cracked and soft, his whispered apologies seeping into her collarbone._ _

__She knows that he's apologizing for so much more than what he did to her, but she forgives him anyway. There are so many things he needs to make up for, but she does, she forgives him, and when she whispers that into his ear, he presses even closer to her, and shakes even harder._ _

__When he starts hyperventilating she strokes his hair and cups his face and tells him to breathe with her, that she's here and she's breathing and she's not leaving, because she knows how to do this part so well that it feels like muscle memory._ _

__She'd forgotten for awhile, but when his eyes finally open to meet hers, tears falling off his lashes at the movement, she realizes, for what's probably the hundredth time, in full colour, that if she laid out every single part of herself, every single one of them would love him irrevocably._ _

It feels like a hole is being burned through her chest, because he looks so beautiful like this; with his soul laid out in front of her. The whites of his eyes are reddened and it emphasizes the blue staring back at her. His face is ashen and wet and sunken, but there's a ghost of something content on his lips; not a smile, but still nothing resembling the look he'd worn when he walked into the bunker. 

She knows she can't save him or fix him. She knows that. He needs to learn how to do that himself. Yet, she also knows that she can give him this place, within her arms, face pressed to her chest, massive arms wrapped around her torso, massive legs wrapped around her calves; pressed together so tightly in this moment that they more closely resemble a tree's roots subdueing a building than two humans. Felicity knows that whatever god is above isn't a poet, and Their powers don't work in such a way, but she only hopes that he can find himself here; within her.

__Once he regains his breathing, he lets her guide him out to the med table, and throughout the whole time she's cleaning him up, regardless of how much he's wincing, he always leans into her touch, as if her skin pressing into his is as soothing as the cream she rubs into his open flesh._ _

__When she finally finishes with the last bandage, she pulls him to the comfy black chairs and brings him the soup that'd been left on the table (John must've left it, she'd reasoned), and tells him all about her week in a soft voice, leaving out the panic attacks and the sleepless nights that worsened with his absence._ _

__It takes him over an hour to finish the food (she repeatedly makes sure to tell him to eat slow so he can keep it down), and then she takes his hand and walks him back to the cot._ _

__When he lays down and pulls the covers over his body, another tear leaks out, and he looks down, worry etched into his face. "Can you, uh– can you just stroke my hair until I fall asleep?" he whispers. It hurts her to think that he's so scared that she'll walk away again, and she knows she can't feel guilty about leaving, because she did what was healthy for herself, but that doesn't mean hurting him hurt any less._ _

__She smiles softly at him, sitting in the armchair by his bed. She knows that he won't be asleep long, pure exhaustion being the only reason he's even attempting, and that he'll wake from nightmares worse than any she's seen (the first night in Bali was the worst she'd ever seen him, the storms making him frantic and jittery, as he woke up with screams, and still, she'd never seen him like this). Yet, she moves her hand, brushing his hair back and looks into his eyes, settling into the chair._ _

__A look of something as close to resembling peace as possible crosses his features as she whispers, "No place I'd rather be."_ _

**Author's Note:**

> reviews are always great:)!


End file.
